


Midsummer

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Grand Estates, M/M, Mutual Pining, Regency Romance, Romance Novel, Slow Burn, balls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Geralt of Rivia is the mystery of the ton. The Viscount of Lettenhove is a notorious rake who hosts an annual Midsummer house party.When Geralt is convinced to attend Jaskier's fête, he has low expectations of his host in general. He soon finds, however, that Jaskier is full of secrets. He is far more than the idle aristocrat Geralt expected, and he's far better looking than is convenient.It's a Regency AU. There are fancy clothes, ballrooms, and shadowy corners.You know the drill.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 72
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 20 chapters expected, give or take a few.
> 
> (This, like all my stories, started as an experiment.)

“You’re mad, you know that?”

Jaskier flung himself back in his chair, stretched his legs, and let out an exaggerated yawn. “Is that what the _ton_ is saying about me lately? How droll.” He looked about the club, taking in the equally droll colours considered fashionable this season. A grey waistcoat here, a mint green ascot there. _Tragic_ , he thought. He crossed his ankles and picked up his brandy. “If they think I’m mad because of a guest list, town has clearly been too quiet.”

“Too quiet?” Lord Biberveldt snorted. “Only _you_ would call this quiet, Jaskier. You know there’s a war starting any day now.”

“There’s always a war starting any day now. I’m atrociously bored.” Jaskier adjusted a ruby cufflink and set down his snifter. “And your hysteria perfectly encapsulates the problem, Dainty. If society is worked up about the bastard issue of a disgraced duke being invited to the house party of—I _must_ say—their very favourite _bon vivant_ , well—”

Dainty cut him off with a snort. “You _wish_ you were the ton’s favourite _bon vivant_.”

“I swear to Christ and the virgin, if you say his name—”

“ _Valdo Marx_ ,” Dainty teased, sotto voce.

“That prig.”

“He isn’t, though, Jask, and that _is_ the problem, isn’t it?”

“He can…” Jaskier trailed off and reacquainted himself with the brandy. It was smooth and warm, and truly excellent. “What are we here for, anyway? Cards? Shall we see who else is about? I’ve my eye on a new silk in Elihal’s shop—they’ve promised me a new waistcoat, but simply refuse to be paid in anything but _coin_ now.”

“Tragic.”

“Don’t be ironic, Dainty, it’s not like you.”

“Don’t be such a cad.”

“I am not a cad; I am a rake. It’s very fashionable, you know.” He pushed himself to his feet and stretched.

“It’s fashionable until you’re poxy and being carted to Bedlam, blind and lame.”

“Well then it’s very good Elihal doesn’t have the pox, isn’t it?”

“It would be if Elihal was the only one. How many lovers have you taken this season, Dandelion?”

“Define lover...”

“You’re hopeless.”

“You’re just jealous your lady wife has you locked up so tight.”

“You’re just jealous my lady wife won’t look at you twice.”

“Jealous you found her first.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Ah, _oui_ , lead on, _mon ami_.”

~ ~ ~

Geralt frowned at the letter tray, prompting an amused hum from Barnabas-Basil. “I believe you’re meant to open it, sir.”

“Hmm.”

The envelope was sapphire with silver filigree. If Geralt’s name wasn’t scripted onto it so neatly, he would think it had found the wrong recipient. As a rule, his correspondences were from merchants and shipbuilders, occasional arms traders, and more rarely, family. None of them came with such decorate trappings. Most were addressed in a font that belied a certain anger that had inevitably provoked the missive.

They certainly weren’t blue.

Geralt used his finger to tear open the paper, ignoring his butler’s wince. He pulled out a thick, creamy card.

_The Viscount de Lettenhove_

_requests your attendance_

_at his annual Midsummer fete_

_Pankratz Hall – Sussex_

“Hmm,” Geralt repeated.

“Shall I prepare your luggage, sir?”

“For?”

“The viscount’s party.”

“No. Burn this. I have an appointment with Regis. I need to review some ledgers first.”

“If I may, sir…”

“What?”

“Lettenhove’s party could be an opportunity. The other guests are potential investors.”

“The other guests are fops with creditors barking at their doors. They couldn’t invest in a—a lump of coal.”

“Illustrative.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“The viscount’s annual Midsummer party is known as a gathering of wealthy young men and women. Several of the _haute ton_ ’s most celebrated debutantes will be there.”

“If I was interested in debutantes, I would have my own summer party.”

“Midsummer, _monsieur_.”

“Mm.”

“None of them would come to Corvo Bianco, sir. None who are respectable.”

“And it’s a respectable set at Lettenhove’s?”

Barnabas-Basil crossed his arms across his chest. “It’s a mixed set, but the connections…”

Geralt’s eyes swept around his study, taking in the mahogany bookcases, the cashmere tartan draped over a chaise, and the thick, Aubusson rug. “I don’t need connections.”

Barnabas-Basil’s spectacles didn’t quite hide his eye-roll. Geralt lifted an eyebrow in question. Barnabas-Basil sighed. “When I said I wanted a quiet life, I did not mean retirement.”

“You aren’t retired. You’re my butler.”

“Retirement would be more exciting. You don’t even keep footmen.”

“And to think everyone thinks I’m a madman.” Geralt stood, walked to an end table, and poured himself two fingers of Scotch.

“I could’ve done that,” Barnabas-Basil muttered.

“Fine. Fine. We’ll go to the party. You can play valet for a weekend.”

“Week.”

“Week?”

“The party’s a fortnight, but I am not delusional.”

“ _I_ must be.”

“I will prepare the luggage.”

“Midsummer isn’t until the end of the month.”

“The party begins Saturday. In Sussex.”

Geralt swallowed his whisky. “Fine.”

~ ~ ~

“Is it really him?” Essi peered across the terrace toward the solitary figure across the courtyard. She leaned toward Jaskier with a sly grin. “I can’t believe he actually came.”

Jaskier watched the torchlight catch the man’s profile as he took a long drag on a cheroot. He was even taller than expected, with broader shoulders than the rumours had suggested. Jaskier grinned. “People are going to be talking about this for years.”

Essi snorted. “And that’s your priority.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Well, he wasn’t at the Marx ball, so set, match.”

“The Marx ball was a masque, so you don’t know that.”

Jaskier looked back at the man’s silhouette. “No, no. I know.”

Essi looked, too. She took a sip of champagne. “Oh, that’s good,” she said.

“You think?” Jaskier lifted an eyebrow. “Are you, erm, making some intentions known here?”

“Intentions? Regarding Geralt, rumoured long-lost illegitimate son of the Duke of Morhen?”

“Are you?”

“You have to ask? Can you imagine me as a duchess?”

Jaskier grinned. “I can imagine you as a feisty old dowager.”

“So you’re suggesting I marry him for status and then get rid of him?”

“I’m not certain this is appropriate conversation for my impressionable ears.”

“But I haven’t even told you my plan for achieving widowhood.”

“Oh, I can imagine—”

“Judging by that figure, it would take some rigorous activity to get his heartbeat that high, but they say his hair is completely white, so he must be at least twice our age.”

“Essi, what would your mother say?”

“My mother? God only knows. But Grand’Mère would be _tr_ _ès_ proud.”

As if he heard them, Geralt turned toward the terrace. Jaskier saw his face. His eyes were shadowed, but his strong jawline and dimpled chin were cast in the golden light from the torches. Jaskier felt like a moth in a bell jar, suddenly out of air. The man’s suit was raven black, and his shirt was pristine white. His long hair was pulled back without ornament. He took another drag on the cheroot. His hair wasn't white. It was silver.

“Oh,” whispered Essi. “Grand’Mère would be _tr_ _ès_ proud indeed.” She smoothed her gown. It was scarlet and ivory, with cap sleeves that revealed graceful, lean arms. Delicate beading and embroidery toyed with the eye. The string quartet in the ballroom played a long chord, and then began a wistful waltz. “Let’s go meet him, darling.”

“ _Oui, ma ch_ _ère_.” He gestured toward the steps to the garden. “ _S’il vous pla_ _ît_.”

~ ~ ~

Geralt repressed a shudder of discomfort as he watched the pair on the terrace stare at him. The woman looked hungry, and Geralt nearly turned toward the stable to call his carriage back out. Were he anywhere else, he’d saddle Roach and ride north without hesitation. Instead, he breathed the sweet cheroot into his lungs, repressed a grimace, and waited to be approached. They started his way, and he knew there was no way to avoid it: the social graces had become unavoidable. _God damn Barnabas-Basil._ Geralt’s brothers would never believe he’d let his butler talk him into a house party.

A giggle to his right disturbed the bitter contemplation, and Geralt turned in time to see a riotous head of curls dash after a brunette in black. _Widow’s weeds are more glamorous than I remember_ , he thought. He looked back to the terrace and saw a footman interrupt the couple on their way to him. They followed the footman back into the house, instead of continuing his direction. “Dinner soon,” Geralt mused. He should find the host himself before it was unforgivably late.

Geralt knew almost nothing of the viscount. His name had been mentioned on rare occasion during business deals—always in relation to a ball or hunt. He was rumoured to be an unrepentant rogue, but he was known for humour and wit, in addition to his hedonism. “He’s a tastemaker, sir,” Barnabas-Basil had insisted while packing Geralt’s trunks. Plural. “You’ll need to pack for every possible activity.”

“Just… Don’t forget my riding kit.”

Geralt crushed the rest of the cheroot in the neatly-trimmed grass and made his way toward the rear entrance of Pankratz Hall.

It was a grand house, to be sure. Candelabras dangled, brightly lit, in richly-painted rooms with sparkling mirrors. The parquet floors were waxed to a shine, and the whole place seemed to glow with warmth. “The earl moved to Venice after the countess died,” Barnabas-Basil had said. “Leaving the viscount to drink his way through the family’s holdings.”

“Charming.”

“Typical,” Barnabas-Basil corrected him. “Especially in the south.”

Now, amid the opulence of the house, Geralt was reminded of the idleness of the upper class. Even with his current circumstances—a previously unimagined and, frankly, largely undesired wealth—he couldn’t fathom a life drinking through his holdings.

Eating, maybe. Geralt was rather fond of chicken sandwiches, and they weren’t exactly cheap. He nodded to a footman who offered a tray of champagne. “Thanks.”

The footman didn’t reply.

The hall was wide, with a balcony above, and a high, ornate cupola in the ceiling. “Excuse me,” Geralt said to the footman. “Where can I find the host?”

“His lordship?”

“Lordship? Sure.”

“The viscount, sir, is just there.” The footman gestured to the top of the grand staircase. The man from before stood at the top.

“That’s the viscount?”

The footman’s eyebrow furrowed. He was clearly unimpressed, and he turned away.

At the top of the stairs, the viscount nodded to the butler, who struck the floor with a cane, creating a resounding noise. “Ladies. Gentlemen. If we may beg your attention.”

The viscount grinned, and Geralt took a half-step back. “My dearest friends, old… and new…” His eyes tracked through the room and seemed to pause on Geralt. He wore deep blue, and it made his eyes look like the Mediterranean. “Welcome to my home. I hope that, by now, you’ve had time to treat yourself to a glass of wine and good company.” He winked at someone to Geralt’s left, so quickly most probably missed it. “Make yourselves at home.” He licked his lips and smiled, as if promising something exciting and wicked. “Dinner will be each evening at nine. I think tomorrow we’ll have a picnic by the lake.” He lifted an eyebrow in suggestion. “Enjoy.”

Every eye seemed to follow him, despite the clear dismissal. His eyes fixed on Geralt, despite his position toward the rear of the crowd of guests. _How many rooms are there?_ He tried to make an educated estimate and ignore the viscount. _Thirty?_ The whispers around him crescendoed.

Ignoring him was impossible. “Hello,” the viscount greeted him. He bowed—a ridiculous gesture that was entirely incorrect for the occasion. Geralt considered if it meant he should bow in return, and decided against it. In his confusion, he merely stood and solemnly stared. “I don’t believe we’ve had the honour. I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. Jaskier, to my friends.”

“Lord Pankratz,” Geralt replied with a nod. “Geralt… Of Rivia.”

“Of Rivia. Of course.” Jaskier seemed suddenly aware of their audience. “I’m so delighted you came,” he drawled. He looked up to the violinist and twirled a finger in the air. Music started, and the room seemed to move on. “We’ve been so eager to meet you.”

Geralt let out a breath. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Jaskier’s smile was full of mischief, and something about it made Geralt feel unsettled. “But of course. There’s nothing quite like a house party to make new acquaintances—especially when they’re so loathe to attend balls.”

“I’m not… good… at society.”

Jaskier’s eyes tracked slowly down Geralt’s body in inspection. “No, I imagine you’re much more at home on a battlefield, aren’t you?”

Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond. _Does he think I look uncivilized?_ He kept his mouth closed.

“Or guarding something, like an ancient tomb, with that glare.” His lips quirked up at the corner. “Or, I suppose, rescuing fair maidens from beastly fiends. Speaking of, have you met Essi Daven?”

“No.”

“Come come. I’m certain you’ll find her a pure delight. Because she is. She grew up in Brittany on the seaside, and she has that… you know.”

“I don’t.”

“That French allure.”

“Sounds unpatriotic.”

“Does it? I think it is a very British appreciation for _les femmes françaises_. And for that matter, all of the finer French things. Brandy. Fancy chairs. Death.”

“Death is a fine French thing?”

“ _La petite mort_?”

Geralt schooled his face into an expressionless mask.

Jaskier tilted his head back and let out a throaty laugh. “Wonderful.”

“What?”

“You. You’re perfect.”

Geralt felt his eyebrows furrow, but he was powerless to stop it. “Excuse me,” he said. He turned and walked away.

Barnabas-Basil was brushing a jacket and hanging it in the tall armoire in Geralt’s room. “I wasn’t expecting you yet, sir. I haven’t yet readied the bath.”

“We’re leaving.”

“Why?”

“This was stupid. And I don’t need a valet to prepare a bath for me or hang up my clothes.”

Barnabas-Basil released a derisive huff. “Sure.”

“I’m not going to be a spectacle for the next week.”

“Spectacle, sir?”

“Your viscount brought me here to _laugh_ at me. He can do that just as well without my presence.”

Barnabas-Basil rolled his eyes. “It’s good for you. This is the most you’ve spoken in weeks that wasn’t about a contract.”

“I thought servants were supposed to be supportive.”

“I am.”

Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head. “Fine. We’ll stay, but I’m not going back out there tonight.”

“I’ll prepare your bath.”

“Fine.”

~ ~ ~

“Fuck,” Jaskier murmured. He watched Geralt stalk out of the hall into the eastern wing. He was in the green bedroom on the second floor; Jaskier could cut him off if he took the servant staircase. Apologise for whatever offended him. _My god but he is a good-looking man_ , he thought. His legs were so powerful. Jaskier sighed. “Fuck.”

A passing young lady gasped.

“I beg your pardon,” Jaskier said. He took her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He released her, and started away.

“Lord Pankratz,” said the girl.

“Yes? Oh. My dear, I would be honoured if you would dance a set with me later. Or is your card already full? Surely such a comely, lovely thing has already—”

“I would be delighted.” She giggled and blushed.

“Wonderful.” When he looked back, Geralt was gone. “Excuse me.”

Jaskier didn’t get far. _You invited too many guests_ , he scolded himself. Every three steps, he had someone new to greet. He would be dancing until dawn at the rate he was asking, but it was the simplest way to get out of a long chat.

Jaskier hadn’t known Geralt would be offended by his off-colour jokes. He was surprised, to be honest, but he didn’t mind keeping it clean, if it really upset the man. He was… an enigma. An enigma with unusual, bright, amber eyes and hands that looked like they could… Jaskier didn’t know what. Tearing a Bible in half was the first image that came to his mind, and that was odd, even for him. They were large, dexterous hands. Jaskier wondered if they held their hands together like children, whose fingers were longer. He’d always had large hands, himself, but Geralt might beat him.

He’d offended him, and he’d promised to introduce Essi. She was a merry young widow, not yet thirty and far from the shelf. A man like Geralt would be an exciting adventure. It might be even more than that. She was beautiful, and they would look divine together. A work of art. Jaskier pictured it, and felt his gut twist. Geralt looked like a sculpture come to life—if not better than that. It might be the allure of mystery surrounding him, too, but Jaskier wanted to study him. He wanted to poke him and get him to reveal his secrets. He was certain Essi must feel the same, especially after seeing him. He was a bloody fantasy of a man. How did one become such a specimen?

Nearly an hour passed before Jaskier made his way to Geralt’s door. “Just apologise,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t make an arse of yourself, or make him uncomfortable. Just in and out.” He rapped on the door.

“Come.”

Jaskier pushed open the door.

“That was fast, Barnabas. Did you find it?” Geralt’s voice came from the lavatory attached to the room. He emerged, and Jaskier choked on air. Geralt was stripped bare and wet, with a small towel wrapped around his hips. It was low, and Jaskier could see the southward trail of his chest hair and a scar by the dip of his hipbone. Geralt stopped, stunned.

“Fucking hell,” Jaskier breathed.

“I—uh…”

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” Jaskier spun around. Then he thought, _Is it weird to turn? Men see each other naked fraternally on the regular, and that isn’t untoward. Now he’s going to wonder why I turned. Why did you turn? Is it weird to turn back? Fuck. He’s gorgeous. This is terrible_. “I’m terribly sorry for disturbing your privacy. I came to apologise for earlier. It seems I cannot help myself. Let me make it up to you.”

“What?”

Jaskier turned back toward him. _That chest…_ “I offended you with my crassness. I am sorry. Please let me repay the rudeness.”

“Mm. Sure.”

“Great!” Jaskier tried to give his best, most encouraging smile. Geralt frowned. “What sorts of things do you like?”

“What?”

“Things. I like books and music. Fine wine. You know… things.”

“I… Horses?”

“Excellent! Horses. Um… How about this: meet me at the stables after breakfast. At ten. Ten? Ten. Meet me at ten. I’ll show you my stables and we’ll ride out. I understand they’re nice.”

“You understand?”

“I’m not much of a rider…” Jaskier winced.

Geralt seemed to take pity on him. “Hmm. Ten.”

“Excellent! Shall I bring anyone else? Ms. Daven, perhaps?”

Geralt’s eyes were restless. They seemed to sweep down Jaskier’s form, then fix on his hair before returning to his eyes. Jaskier felt his stomach lurch again, and it seemed as if the air was suddenly siphoned from the room. “No need,” Geralt replied. He looked away. “And I wasn’t offended by your crassness.”

“So you find me genteel?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” His lips were _almost_ curled up in a smile.

Jaskier put a hand on his hip. “But I am. Terribly, horribly genteel. Everyone says so, you know.” He took a step forward. “I’m unbearably charming. It’s my burden in life.”

Geralt looked as if he didn’t know what to say.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jaskier said.

“Goodnight, My Lord.”

Jaskier shivered. He closed the door on his way out.

He wondered if Geralt had seen.


	2. Chapter 2

“Did you talk to him?” Dainty leaned against the billiard table and lined up a shot. “Or did he give you the slip?”

“He can’t give him the slip. Jask is the host,” Essi said. She took a sip of sherry and made a face at the sweetness. “Oh that _is_ terrible.” She sipped it again.

“Sure he can,” Dainty insisted. “He’s—” He cast a furtive look about the billiard room, and then made his shot. “He’s Geralt Rivia, or ‘of Rivia,’ they say. Whatever _that_ means. He _owns_ Northumberland.”

“He doesn’t own _all_ of it,” Essi argued. “Just… half.”

“And his father owns the other half,” Jaskier added.

“And an expansive estate in Scotland. That’s where Morhen is, you know. In the godforsaken wilderness. But that’s no matter. Do you know the amount of coal they pull out of Northumberland these days?” Dainty asked.

“Darling, you’re asking the wrong people,” said Essi.

“It was rhetorical. And the answer is _a lot_. There’s money there, you know.”

Jaskier chalked his cue. “What a gauche thing to discuss.”

Essi leaned close to him. “I heard he once bet five thousand pounds on a single hand of cards.”

“Did he win?” Jaskier asked. He sank a ball into the corner pocket. “Who was he playing, anyway?”

Dainty shrugged. “No one respectable.”

“I suppose it’s perfectly respectable if you own all the coal in Northumberland,” Jaskier mused.

“Is trade becoming respectable?” Essi asked with a tilt to her chin.

“Well, it isn’t like he’s personally digging it out of the ground,” Jaskier pointed out. “It’s perfectly gentlemanly to profit off the labour of others. I believe that is in fact the quintessence of the gentry.”

Dainty snorted. “I believe it’s far more genteel to make nothing and live on credit.”

“Wrong.” Essi took another sip of sherry. “It’s most genteel to marry well and live off _those_ funds.”

Jaskier lined up his next shot. “Don’t say that in front of Dainty. His marriage was a love match, you know.”

“I am a lucky man,” Dainty sighed.

“Yet she remains in her boudoir this evening, denying us her lovely company.” Jaskier struck the cue ball and missed his shot.

“She is, indeed, a wise woman.” Dainty grinned and took his next shot.

“Touché.” Jaskier took up his brandy and swirled it in the glass. “Any anyway, Monsieur Rivia _did_ give me the slip, but I made chase and tracked him down.”

“Oh?” Essi sank down onto a cushioned chair.

“He, like Lady Biberveldt, sought the privacy of his bedchamber.”

“Which you denied him?” Essi asked.

“But for a moment.”

“You mean you _weren’t_ plying him with questions this last hour?” Essi raised one of her delicately curved brows. “Then where were you? Or should I ask with whom?”

“With myself.”

The other eyebrow lifted.

“Not like that. Although…”

Dainty released an exaggerated gasp. “Jaskier! In front of a lady?”

“Where?” Essi asked. They laughed.

“But really, he seems far more proper than I expected. Or did. I tried to joke with him and ended up with my foot in my mouth—”

“No surprise there,” Dainty interjected.

“He just seemed so pure—like a fresh, young ingenue, but with the body of…” Jaskier trailed off, thinking of a comparison. “Achilles.”

“Achilles?” Essi scoffed. “The suit was probably just—”

“Not the suit, darling, I can attest.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward.

“Intent on apology, I nobly ventured into the east wing. As always, I carefully situated my guests’ rooms based on ease of expected dalliance, so he’s quite near you, dearest.” Jaskier swallowed.

“Interesting. Do go on.”

Dainty shook his head. “This is why you’re neither wed.”

“I was,” Essi reminded him. “How dare you be so flippant about my dear, late husband?”

“Apologies, Madame Daven. I mean no insult to the illustrious family name.” Dainty bowed.

“I was rather fond of him, sometimes.”

“When he was in his cups and kept to himself,” Jaskier provided.

“Mm. Rather.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Now, more about your adventure, Jask.”

“Yes—I intrepidly rapped against his door, determined to apologise for offending his sensibilities. ‘Come,’ he commanded.” Jaskier waggled his brows. Essi giggled. “And I would never dream of disobeying such an honourable and appealing order. I turned the knob and found him… _dishabille_.”

“Oh my!” Essi took another drink.

“He answered the door like that?” Dainty frowned. “Good god. He’s less a gentleman than I thought.”

“He called me Bernard or something. Must have thought I was his valet. Anyway, I was very polite. Apologised on my very best behaviour. We are going for a ride tomorrow morn.”

“A ride?” Dainty scoffed. “You?”

“I know, I know, but he seems to like that sort of thing—god only knows why. Something about those delicate sensibilities, I presume. You know, like a pubescent country girl, obsessed with her ponies. Except… possessing a body like Apollo himself. It really is a shame it’s wasted on him. If I had that body…”

“You’d have every sort of pox imaginable, and some unimaginable,” Dainty finished. “Though I must say, it’s a miracle you don’t already.”

“What is this obsession with you and the pox? That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it in a fortnight.”

“Call it concern for your welfare.”

Jaskier shook his head. “You’ve just been reading John Wilmot again.”

“The parallels are notable,” Essi pointed out. “He was an earl. A southerner. And an abominable libertine.”

“Essi,” Jaskier feigned shock. “You’ve been reading Wilmot? For shame!”

“Please. Aphra Behn, any day, over Wilmot.”

“A fair criticism,” Jaskier allowed. “’The soft resistance did betray the grant, / While I pressed on the heaven of my desires; / Her rising breasts with nimbler motions pant; / Her dying eyes assume new fires…’”

Essi rolled her eyes. “That _would_ be the part you know.”

“You know darling that I have a most thorough education. Especially when it comes to such a friend as she. We are of a mind; I feel we could be family.”

“That is one way of putting it,” said Essi. “And I don’t disagree. Oh Dainty, dear, you look quite underwhelmed with our discussion.”

“Would you not rather discuss the trade negotiations on which we vote later this year? The price of tea, perhaps? No?” Dainty asked in a jocular tone.

“We’ll save the House of Lords for tomorrow night’s rendezvous,” Jaskier assured him with a grin. “I couldn’t bear to restrict the topic to only the limited time remaining tonight. After all, I have an early morning appointment with a horse and a Roman statue.”

“It’s too bad he’s dull,” Essi said. “Otherwise I think I’d take you up on the dalliance idea. He certainly is something. The good-looking ones do so often disappoint in that way.”

“You two…” Dainty clicked his tongue at them. “Naughty and also rude.”

“I’ll give him a chance,” Jaskier assured him. “Maybe he’s just shy.”

“Well then,” Essi laughed, “he’ll be miserable all week. He isn’t just the talk of the ton—he’s the talk of half the city. I think when word gets out he’s here, everyone will be turning up, claiming they received an invitation.”

Jaskier smiled. “Good. Like I said,” he told Dainty, “people will be talking of this party for years.”

~ ~ ~

Geralt’s bedroom was well-appointed and lavish. He woke early, splashed his face with water from the basin, and sat at the writing desk by the window. Outside, the first rays of sunlight made the dew sparkle before drying. He opened the window sash and let in the lingering cool of dawn and the thrush’s song. He unfurled a slip of paper and wet his quill.

_Eskel,_

_By now, I am sure Lambert will have shared the news. It is true: B— has managed to bring me south after all. Not to London, but Sussex. It is hot, and the lords are irritating as ever. B— says Roche will attend and the networking will pay dividends. I’ll give it three days, and no more._

_I hope this letter finds you in London. If you’re free, a hand would be appreciated. I know no one, and it’s clear they brought me here for the spectacle. If I’m to be a wolf in a cage, we may as well be two. Three, if L— is with you. Make him bring something decent. You can be my plus one, & L— can be your valet. He’d love that. Is it rude to invite you? No ruder than the host and company thus far._

_The host is a fop. Julian Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. To inherit the earldom, they tell me. Somehow, he convinced me to ride with him this morning—I’m sure to gather worthy gossip for the other guests._

_This was all a terrible idea, and now I am stuck here. Three days. Send word, and I’ll meet you the fourth day in Town._

_At least the scenery is fine._

_-G._

Geralt sealed the envelope with wax and addressed it to the London townhouse. Eskel would probably be there another week to finalize a deal with an American shipbuilder. If nothing else, the response would be something to look forward to. He dressed in his riding clothes, even though his appointment with the viscount wasn’t for hours. He handed off the letter to the butler, and quietly made his way into the dining room.

No one else seemed to be up or about. He drank coffee and ate an oversized breakfast: soft eggs, spiced sausages, and buttered toast with a tangy marmalade. He left when the next set of guests arrived.

The morning was warm, but not yet unpleasant. Geralt walked onto the terrace and took in the landscape in the light of day. The garden was lush, and just a little chaotic. The rosebushes were all slightly overgrown. The fountains seemed to spray a bit farther than their basins. None of the lines was perfectly straight, and the hedge maze looked trampled, as if someone had crashed through its walls.

Geralt contemplated it, considering the man who owned it. Geralt had only just met him, but impression suggested the viscount, too, was just a little wild. His face, when he saw Geralt in such a state of undress, had been shocked—but not nearly as shocked as it ought to be. Geralt had been stunned and horrified to see someone other than Barnabas-Basil. Lettenhove had processed the mistake, and then proceeded as if it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.

It _was_ an uncommon occurrence. It was even more uncommon that the man had talked at Geralt as if he wasn’t standing there wet and mostly nude. Geralt had been too stunned to disagree. He leaned against a fountain and dipped his hand into the cool water. The bottom was dotted with bright pebbles and seashells. _Unconventional_ , Geralt thought. He looked across the garden at an enormous cypress tree. A ribbon dangled from one of its branches.

~ ~ ~

Jaskier’s pulse raced. “Calm down,” he told his reflection. He blinked at himself. “What is _wrong_ with you?” He retied his cravat for the third time, having wrinkled it terribly after sending his valet away. He still needed to eat something before making his way to the stable, and he was running out of time.

The butler stopped him outside the dining room. “More guests are expected today, My Lord?”

“Yes, Tobias.” He could smell roast meat. “I already gave you the room arrangements.”

“Indeed, My Lord, but we already had unexpected company.”

“We have? Word got out that fast?”

“Baron Wiley arrived late last night. I put him in the blue bedroom.”

“That was supposed to be Roche’s room.”

“He had not arrived, but did this morning.”

“Where’d you put him, then?”

“The coral.”

“Oh, delightful. He’ll be scandalized by the wallpaper.”

“Indeed, My Lord,” Tobias agreed. “I thought you would say as much.”

“Excellent. The coral room was supposed to be…”

“Dijkstra. If he comes, I shall put him in the ivory and gold room.”

“No, that’s too close to me. He has to be… away. And I think he may be fighting with Wiley again. They’ve dueled twice, you know. Deloped, both of them, but still.”

“I can air out the third-floor bedrooms on the west side.”

“Do, please. And maybe the guesthouse. We may end up with more than we know what to do with.” Jaskier rubbed his hands together.

“Yes, My Lord.” Tobias looked at his pocket watch. “You are due in the stables.”

“What? Already?”

“In five minutes.”

“How do you even know about that?”

Tobias smiled. “The picnic luncheon will be ready after noon. Enjoy your ride.”

Jaskier sighed and turned away from the dining room.

The stables at Pankratz Hall were large and well-tended, and Jaskier rarely visited. The head groom greeted him as if he did, and gestured inside. “Your guest awaits, My Lord.”

“Thanks. Is everything… uh… saddled?”

The groom nodded. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Thank you. Uh. Well done.”

The air smelled like sweet hay and oats, and that distinct equine scent that made Jaskier grind his teeth together. He squinted in the dim light of the stable, and then stopped. Geralt stood near the middle, his back to Jaskier, and stroked his mare’s neck. “I know,” he was saying. “I think it’s idiotic, too. I’ll come this once, and then we’ll never have to do it again.”

He was talking to his horse. The realization made Jaskier pause. He crept forward quietly, waiting to hear more, but Geralt seemed to have finished. “I’m not _that_ terrible of company,” Jaskier said. He saw Geralt’s shoulders lock up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Geralt turned. His eyes quickly tracked down Jaskier’s body, as if assessing his attire. “You didn’t.”

Jaskier hummed. He looked around, trying to remember where he would find his horse. “Ah, yes. Um. Oh. There you are, big fellow.” He took his reins and led him out, and then mounted. He adjusted himself, and then looked up to find Geralt already beside him, impatience written across his face. “Right. Horses. Riding. Would you like to see the grounds, then?”

“Mm,” said Geralt. Jaskier took it as a yes.

~ ~ ~

At first, Geralt thought Jaskier was completely unsure how to ride. After the first half-mile, however, he relaxed his seat and sped his gelding along the path. Geralt allowed himself to relax, too. The grounds were in the full bloom of summer, and the wood was almost mystic. The cypress and oak were thick and tall, and birds soared overhead, chirping and crooning along the way. The air was thick with the aroma of moss and rich greenery, and when Geralt looked over at his host, he looked almost elven in the sylvan landscape. _Midsummer indeed_ , Geralt thought. He considered the man’s shoulders. _But more Oberon than Puck_.

“Your horse looks like quite the… horse,” said the viscount. He visibly cringed.

Geralt took mercy on him. “Roach is a good girl. My Lord,” he finished, late with the honorific again. He remembered the way he’d added it last night. It had inexplicably sent his skin pebbling into goosebumps. The effect was different in the light of day.

“Oh, none of that,” the viscount protested. “Jaskier, please.”

“Jaskier?”

“A nickname since childhood.”

“Interesting.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Any childhood nicknames you’re still called?”

“I didn’t have that kind of childhood.”

Jaskier peered at him. “Well, then I shall just have to make a nickname for you.”

The comment caught Geralt off guard. He chuckled, despite himself. “So why don’t you like to ride?”

“What?”

“You’re good, but clearly out of practice. Your stables are exceptional, but you don’t know your way around them.”

“The stables were my mother’s.” Jaskier pressed his lips together.

“I see. Is she in Venice, too?”

Jaskier grimaced. “No. Father is in Venice. My mother is dead.”

“Hm. I’m sorry.”

“It was several years ago.” He wet his lips. “That is when Father left.” He grinned. “But enough about that! I invited you for a ride to make amends, not talk of myself. You seem like you have far more interesting tales than I.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Why is that?”

“Well,” Jaskier made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “You look… Like that. That is… We don’t know anything about you. Rather, I understand you’re interested in… mining?” His cheeks reddened.

“I’m interested in progress. Efficiency,” Geralt said. “Right now, coal is going to power the future.”

“Right now? What do you mean?”

“Stone, bronze, iron… Everything changes eventually.”

“Strange thoughts for an aristocrat.”

Geralt scoffed. “Sorry to disappoint, Viscount, but I’m no aristocrat.”

“Yet you’re here, in the company of the ton.”

“Forgive my honesty, but it’s a price of doing business. You bluebloods are necessary connections.”

“Then you’ll have to forgive mine. You call us bluebloods with derision, as if you aren’t one yourself. Yet everyone knows you’re Morhen’s son.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if challenging Geralt.

Geralt took a breath and reminded himself the rumours were why this was possible. These connections were important for the whole family. They enabled Eskel to make the additional shipping connections, and they got Lambert… whatever the hell he was doing these days. They put Coën in a good school. “Does everyone know that?” Geralt couldn’t help but ask. He managed to keep his tone neutral, and Jaskier’s mouth twitched.

“It takes but one person to hear of an inheritance. The tale of an heir—and an unlikely one, to boot—is like tinder to the fires of gossip. Wildfire. You’ve sent word crackling through the masses—”

“The masses don’t give a shit about who Vesemir picks as his heir.”

“ _Au contraire_ , _Monsieur du Rivia_. Everyone cares. The ton cares because you have joined its ranks, and it wants to measure you. The hoi polloi care because you represent possibility. No?”

“Is that what I represent?”

Jaskier’s eyes flitted over him. They seemed to linger on his legs, and then travelled back to his face. “Possibility… And a few other things, I’d wager.”

“Well, rumours can be misleading.”

“Where there’s smoke—”

“The ton is rumoured to be fixated on _manners_ , and yet…”

“Oh no, no, don’t misunderstand. _Le bon ton_ uses manners to restrict and punish—not to make anyone comfortable. Even when they look like you.”

“Look like me?”

Jaskier smiled. “Your brothers…”

“What about them?”

“So, they are your brothers?”

Geralt frowned. “I thought the point of this outing was…” He pressed together his lips.

“It was. Allow me to most humbly apologise again,” Jaskier said, swivelling in his saddle. He swung his arm to the side in a flourish, and bowed. At the same time, his horse stumbled. The movement propelled Jaskier sideways, unseating him, and Geralt only had time to grunt in surprise as Jaskier went toppling onto the path. Roach whinnied, and the gelding reared.

Geralt reached for its reins and pulled them both back. “Steady,” he said. “Easy now.” He turned and looked behind him.

Jaskier rolled onto his back on the ground. “Ow. Fuck.” He sat up slowly. “Well that was… just… lovely.” His voice was pinched.

“Mm.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry a bit.” He eased himself up with a groan.

Geralt climbed down. “Sit,” he told Jaskier.

“O-kay?” Jaskier sat back with a wince.

Geralt knelt down to check for injuries. He took hold of Jaskier’s foot, first. His riding boots were fine leather, with a thick sole. “Does this hurt?” he asked, gently rotating his ankle.

Jaskier sucked in an audible breath. “U—uh, no…”

“These boots probably saved you a bad sprain.” He ran his fingers up Jaskier’s shin. Nothing seemed out of proportion or position. He felt his kneecap beneath the buckskin breeches and compared it to the other. “This is already swelling. Hmm.” It would be difficult to remount. He ran his hands down the other leg, checking the other ankle. “Are your arms okay?”

Jaskier stared at his ankle.

“Jaskier?”

“Huh?”

“Your arms. Are they okay?”

“Oh. Yes. I mean, I think. Um.”

“Let me see.”

Jaskier’s skin was flushed. “Does it hurt very bad?” Geralt asked. Jaskier shook his head. “Let me see your wrists.”

Jaskier held out his hands, and Geralt inspected each of them, running his fingers along the delicate skin of Jaskier’s wrists. His arms were dusted with dark hair that was soft against Geralt’s fingers. His palms were scratched. Geralt brushed a miniscule pebble from the abrasion.

“And your elbows and shoulders are fine?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice was small.

“Okay. We need to get you back on the horse.”

Jaskier pouted. His full, pink bottom lip popped out, making Geralt chuckle.

“Nope. You always get back in the saddle, or you’ll start to fear it.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Geralt shrugged. “Then she was right. Come on.” He half-hoisted Jaskier up, and helped him swing the injured leg over the horse.

“Mmfff.” Jaskier winced and took a ragged breath. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

They rode back in silence.

At the stable, Jaskier looked at Geralt. “I am... sorry... about that. About all of it.”

Geralt helped him down. “I think it probably illustrates things well. We’re made for different things, people like you and I.”

“Well I _can_ ride a horse. It was an accident.”

“You can, and I can come to your party. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Jaskier hobbled along the stall, leaning on the gate. He looked away. “Thank you for your company, Mr. Rivia.”

“And yours, Lord Pankratz.” Geralt picked up Roach’s brush and set his mind on something other than the confusion of society.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciated your feedback SO MUCH! Thank you for reading.  
> If you're enjoying it, I'd love to know. Regency romance is my non-fic recreational reading of choice, and I really hope you like this one--this is the first I've tried to write the genre. I've done steampunk, but not Regency.
> 
> Also, it's been awhile since I've written Geralt/Jaskier, and I've been spending a lot more time in the game world than the show world lately, so I hope this doesn't come off weird for show fans.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify going into this, I've realized this is going to be a longer slow burn story--possibly a full Regency romance novel. That said, expect a lot more build-up and plot. I'm afraid it's a bit ham-fisted here, but I really didn't want to take any of it out, so you get the full thing.
> 
> So much for when I said maybe three chapters..

Jaskier sat gingerly on a cushioned stool and winced as his valet stripped off his boots. “Easy, Alvin.”

“You aren’t going to be going to the picnic in this state.”

Jaskier sighed. “I must. I have a reputation to maintain, you know, as the most gracious among hosts.”

“Your guests don’t need you to be present to be a good host.”

“Enlightening conversation is the pinnacle of my hospitality, I’m afraid.”

“Cook says you’re feeding them eight courses—for a _picnic_ ,” Alvin argued. “And Tobias says he’s ordered more wine than a brothel at Carnival.”

“How delightfully illustrative.”

“I’m just saying, My Lord, that the food and the grounds will surely be enough—”

“Did Tobias tell you who all has arrived?”

“He mentioned a few people…”

Jaskier snorted. His butler may maintain an austere façade to most of the staff, but he was an incorrigible gossip, particularly with the other high-ranking servants. “Oh did he?” Jaskier spoke in a sardonic tone.

“To answer your question: Roche arrived this morning—”

“He already told me that.”

“Dijkstra has recently been installed on the third floor.”

“Perfect.”

“Baron Wiley was not present during his arrival, but they will undoubtedly meet at the picnic.”

“They won’t act out in front of Roche, even if they are quarrelling. Everyone knows he’s connected to the Home Office.”

“Aren’t you worried about him informing on you?”

Jaskier smiled. “No.” He rolled his ankle, loosening the joint. “I have nothing to hide.” Alvin’s face maintained its neutral mask. _Good_ , Jaskier thought. _Very good._

~ ~ ~

The Pankratz Hall grounds were extensive and included a spring-fed lake and gentle stream, rolling countryside with tidy hedgerows, and wooded thickets and groves. The lake was cool and clear, and Geralt stood on the shore and watched the surface ripple in the breeze.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” 

Geralt turned. Vernon Roche stood behind him, foot perched on a wide stone. He gestured to the landscape. “Isn’t the climate a little warm for you?” Roche asked. 

Geralt sniffed. “I could say the same.”

Roche furrowed his brows. “I’m not too far south of my home. Just east.”

“No, I mean I’m surprised to see you. Isn’t there supposed to be a war starting? Shouldn’t you be—”

Roche lifted a hand, looking askance. “Geralt…”

“No one’s listening.”

“Everyone’s listening. Always.”

“Okay, but they can’t hear us.” He gestured to the main group of guests, who were swatting at shuttlecocks and nearly tumbling over with laughter.

Roche turned, following his gaze. The tightening of his shoulders was subtle, but unmistakable. He looked back at Geralt, opening his mouth to speak.

“An interesting collection of people,” Geralt said, interrupting. His eyes tracked over the group and found more than a few pairs of eyes on them. “I know a few of them by reputation.”

“I imagine it’s mutual. There’s been a lot of talk…”

“About the inheritance?”

“No, about the business deals. The contracts with Blaviken.”

Geralt tensed. “What about Blaviken?”

“They say you were ruthless, and that’s why your father made his decision—because he was impressed.” Roche took Geralt’s silence as an invitation to continue. “I heard you seduced that girl to get the prices you wanted, and that the land is worth a fortune, even now that you jilted her.”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t jilt her.”

“And society is supposed to believe some squire’s daughter jilted a future duke?”

“He wasn’t a squire, and he’s dead, anyway. Believe me, she’s doing much better off without me in her life.”

“She was ruined, Geralt. She won’t be able to show her face in London—”

“Well then it’s good that she isn’t interested in London. Is this really what people say about me? They’re concerned with my…” He made a noncommittal gesture.

“Yes, they’re very concerned with your…” Roche imitated the gesture. “You’re an eligible bachelor now. Sought after. And for all you ruined her—”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re considered more of a catch. Like Lettenhove.”

“He’s supposed to be inclined to attachments. Much more than I.”

“And he is.”

“I’m surprised you’re friends with someone so… concupiscent.”

Roche smiled in a tight line. Geralt narrowed his eyes, and the smile disappeared. “How are your brothers these days? Staying out of trouble?”

Geralt felt his jaw relax. “Mostly. I think Eskel would do much better at this nobility business.”

“But he’s younger?”

“Only just.”

Roche nodded. The question about their mothers seemed to hang in the air, but he didn’t ask. _Knowing Roche_ , Geralt thought _, he doesn’t need to ask. He probably has a dossier on each of us_. Geralt watched him look out at the lake and saw his brow dip, quizzically. He followed his gaze. “Speaking of the nobility,” Roche muttered.

A boat emerged around a bend in the shore, coming in sight through a copse of trees. It was wide and flat, like the bastard child of a punt and a royal barge. Two sturdy-looking workers guided it along, and Lettenhove—Jaskier—reclined at its centre like a prince in a litter. Both of his legs were propped together, so his injured knee was camouflaged. He held a walking stick, which he tapped against the boat rail. The guests paused their play to watch, with a few calling out in welcome or to tease him for being late. The boat bumped against the little pier that jutted from the shore, and one of the punters moored it to the end. Jaskier hauled himself up with the help of his stick, leaning on it as if acting a pantomime. When he reached the shore, he bowed to his guests, and they applauded as if he had accomplished something significant. “Hm,” Geralt said. He turned away and looked back out at the water.

“Have you known him long?” asked Roche.

“You tell me.”

“Why are you here, Rivia?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Because you aren’t cooperating. If you would answer—”

“Am I being interrogated?”

“You know you aren’t. I just...” Roche nearly turned in a circle, checking for unwanted eyes and ears. Jaskier was teasing one of the younger debutantes, who wore a gauzy, white dress with a daring neckline. Her cheeks were flushed as she leaned toward him, giggling. “I know who Eskel has been meeting with in London this week.”

Geralt frowned. “And?”

“And there are a few people here who I’m sure would love to be in on that technology.”

“Steamboats?”

“You can transport a lot more than coal on a ship that fast.”

“We aren’t talking about speed, Vernon, we’re talking about—”

“Shh.” A richly-dressed woman passed them, politely smiling. Her bodice, too, was revealing for a luncheon. She disappeared into a ruined grotto, too artfully distressed to be natural. A few moments later, a man followed.

Geralt took out a cheroot. “French spies?” 

“You never know,” Roche grumbled. Geralt shook his head. He offered him a cheroot, and Roche shook his head.

“The deal with the Americans hasn’t even been finalized. It’ll take Lambert months to have anything developed for us. And I’m not particularly interested in sharing what he comes up with. Otherwise, I’d be talking to engineers here. Or in Scotland.”

“So it’s true you’re building something seaworthy.”

“I have no use for a canal boat, if that’s what you’re asking. We have perfectly fine steamboats for rivers. They’re unreliable and dangerous, but what isn’t, these days?”

“And the Americans have the design?”

“The Americans have ideas. You know how Americans are.”

Roche chuckled. “If you _do_ manage to design an oceangoing steamer…”

“I’m not selling the design to one of them,” Geralt said, nodding toward the group. “Though I am curious why the Home Office would be interested in that. Do they think Dijkstra or Wiley are in with the French?”

“No,” Roche answered. He didn’t elaborate.

Geralt shrugged. “Mm.” A servant offered them each a crystal glass of something fragrant and white. It was sweet and cold. “Come on,” he told Roche. He led the way to the food.

~ ~ ~

“The sky itself is no match for the blue of your eyes, _mademoiselle_ ,” said Jaskier. The girl he spoke to pinkened beautifully. “And your lips are rivalled only by the reddest of ro—” He looked up and found himself being studied by a pair of amber-gold eyes. “Oh! Pardon me. Lord Rivia, Mr. Roche, allow me to introduce…” Jaskier blinked. “Uh, the lovely, um,” Jaskier coughed. “Excuse me a moment. Lady Pavetta… Elen.” He ignored her sidelong stare and hoped the near slip-up would not be related to her mother. The dowager would laugh it off, but she’d also make it up in some atrocious, passive aggressive manner—with the emphasis on _aggressive_.

Pavetta curtseyed. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Um, as I was saying, my groundskeeper is an exceptional boatman. I was going to see if he’d like to paddle us about the lake, but these gentlemen have reminded me I must see to my other guests as well.”

“By all means, don’t stop on our account.” Geralt’s voice was low and caustic. He turned to Pavetta. “Lady Elen.  _Enchantée_ .” He kissed her hand, and her cheeks pinkened again.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned toward the gruff voice behind him. The sudden movement made him clench his fist in pain. _Damn knee._ He steadied his breath before speaking. “Duny. My groundskeeper,” he explained.

“You wanted to see me?”

Jaskier nodded. The thought of sitting wasn’t bad, but the thought of climbing in and out of the boat was less appealing. “It’s nothing. Apologies. I was going to see if you’d like to take us out on the lake. I’m afraid the lovely Lady Elen made me forget my duties as host.” He looked at Pavetta, expecting to see another blush sweep across her face. Instead, he caught her eyes drift over Duny. He was a burly, rough-looking man. Jaskier had to admit, he understood the appeal. He cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps, _ma ch_ _è re_, you’d still like to go?”

“What, just me?”

“And Duny, of course.”

“I’d need a chaperone.”

“We’re all right here. It isn’t like you’d be locked in the grotto together.”

Duny’s eyes were wide, and then narrowed as he looked at Jaskier. His cheeks, Jaskier noted, were redder than normal, too. “Jas…” said Duny.

“Perfect. Don’t stay out there too long, it’s terribly sunny today.” Jaskier turned away. He winced as pain shot up and down his leg.

Geralt was still watching him, and Jaskier fought the urge to fidget. Roche was looking at a canapé as if it held the secrets of the universe. Jaskier hadn’t had a chance to really speak to him yet. He saw the eyes of several other guests on them and resigned himself to waiting a lot longer still. He sighed. Geralt, missing nothing, tilted his head to the side. “So. How do you two know each other?”

Jaskier forced a merry laugh. “Duny and I? His father was groundskeeper for my father, and—”

“I mean you two.” He looked purposefully between Jaskier and Roche.

Jaskier tried to keep his lips from drawing too tightly together. “Mr. Roche and I have known each other for years. Where did we meet, Vernon? Westminster, I’m sure.”

“We share a club.”

“We—oh, yes, we do, come to think of it,” Jaskier agreed. “You know how it is, Rivia. London can be such a small town.”

“If you say so.” Geralt frowned.

“Splendid. Now, that’s cleared up, allow me to share in this humble repast. A casual _déjeuner_ , in the most untamed of settings.”

Geralt scoffed. “Untamed?”

“Comparatively,” Jaskier returned with a wink. “Notice, the tables have been exchanged for blankets. The parquet is grass, the crown moulding a cloud. The candelabra is played by Helios. See how its rays tempt us to drink and sweat? He threatens to make heathens of us, even under the watchful eyes of society’s ‘best.’” He waggled his eyebrows. “Untamed…”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. “You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, and then closed it. Geralt’s lips pressed together in a thin line. His brow dipped.

Roche cleared his throat. “This one will do.” He lowered himself down on the edge of a wide, white blanket.

Geralt started to follow, but stopped. He looked at Jaskier’s knee. “Are you planning to join us?” he asked. His voice had lowered.

Jaskier blinked. “I was.” He started to kneel, and bit hard at his lip. He hastily stood and looked around them. Roche was occupied with securing a plate. Only Geralt had noticed, and Geralt knew of the injury already.

“Why are you hiding it?” Geralt asked.

“It’s no one’s business.” Jaskier shrugged.

“A strange thing to be private about.”

“Is it? As opposed to what?”

“What?”

Jaskier made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “If health is a strange subject to keep close to oneself, what subject is more acceptably private? Money?” He stepped close. “Romance?” His lips curved up in a smile. “I think you’ll find I’ve shared nothing about those topics as well.”

Geralt glowered at him. “I’m not sure what kind of game you’re trying to play, but I’m not interested, whatever it is.”

“Ah.” Jaskier placed a hand on his chest. “You wound me, sir. Or should I say My Lord?” He watched Geralt’s throat contract as he swallowed. His eyes darkened as they met Jaskier’s. He took Jaskier’s hand and subtly nudged his hurt leg. Jaskier let himself be supported and lowered to the ground, knee straight. Geralt kept his eyes on him the whole while, until Jaskier was beneath him, still looking up, stunned. He wet his lips, and Geralt let go. He walked to the opposite side of the blanket and sat. He reached for a glass and drank without stopping to ascertain what it held.

~ ~ ~

Geralt let the sharp, dry acidity of the wine focus his thoughts. He rolled the liquid on his tongue, savouring it. He felt unsettled again, and realised it was becoming a theme when talking to his host. He had expected a rakish hellion, young and wild. He hadn’t expected someone so clearly hiding his true self. He hadn’t expected the urge to fathom him out. He wanted to wind back the previous half hour and live it again, to avoid the horrible curiosity that had arrived, quite suddenly, when Jaskier knelt at his feet.

Geralt ground his teeth together. _It’s his eyes_ , he realized. _The mask doesn’t quite reach them._ Jaskier was quite clearly more than a dandy. But exactly what he was, Geralt wasn’t sure.

“I should ask,” Jaskier said, “how _you_ two know each other.”

Roche peered at Geralt over the rim of his glass. “We’ve known each other a long time, too,” he said.

“Oh,” said Jaskier. He swallowed a finger sandwich and looked away. “I say, Pavetta does make a fetching subject, don’t you agree?” He gestured to the shore, where Duny was helping her into a rowboat. He pushed off, and a few of the guests cheered them. Some of the more ambitious gentlemen tried to imitate him with partners of their own, jovially wrestling over the small menagerie of boats. Two of the gentlemen ended up splashing into the shallow water, and Jaskier threw his head back and laughed. “Delightful.”

Geralt watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, and followed the curve to the line of his jaw. He had missed a spot shaving, and the stubble caught the light. It put a curious mark in the otherwise careful and flawless façade of leisurely gentleman at rest. His pale breeches were spotless; his crimson jacket was pristine. Even his hair was meticulous, and Geralt hummed. _He looks better when it’s mussed_ , he thought.

As if he heard the thought, Jaskier raked his fingers through his hair. He rocked forward, reaching out, and Geralt turned. The woman he’d been with the night before stood over them. Her golden locks were pinned up in ringlets with ribbons, and her ice blue silk seemed to magnify her eyes. “Jaskier,” she said taking his hand.

“A-ha, Essi, come meet my friends. But wait—look at you, so lovely and serene, amid this pastoral fantasy.” He twisted together their fingers. “I am lost. How does it go? ‘Come live with me and be my love / and we will all the pleasures prove, / That Valleys, groves, hills and fields, / Woods, or steepy mountain yields. / And we will sit—’”

“Enough, enough,” she shushed him. “What will your friends think?” She shared a saucy grin with Geralt. “They’ll be unbearably jealous and demand you recite poetry to them as well.”

“I will oblige. The poets have given us more than enough.”

“Oh? Then what would you recite?”

Jaskier turned. His silver-blue eyes met Geralt’s, and then lifted to his hair, which Geralt had hastily pulled back into a queue. They tracked downward at a leisurely pace, taking in each scar and dip. They fixed on his chin for a moment, and then moved on to his plain cravat, his snowy-white shirt and dark coat. They slowed, impossibly, when they reached his thighs, and Geralt wondered what he might be thinking. He knew, of course, that he was a large man. While he may be living in luxury now, the labour of his youth had shaped his figure. Jaskier swallowed, and his eyes returned to Geralt’s. His lips parted, and he took a breath.

“Fine then, don’t tell us,” Essi teased. Geralt looked at her at the same time as Jaskier, and saw her give him a strange look, with a tilt of her head and lifted eyebrow. It almost seemed like a warning or reminder, though Geralt couldn’t say of what she might be reminding him.

Jaskier looked back at Geralt, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled as if questioning something. He laughed, and strangely, Geralt knew it was fake. “I’m ready for the fish,” he announced. He gestured to a footman, who brought them a tray. “Are you joining us?” he asked Essi. “Oh! Apologies. Mrs. Essi Daven, this is Lord Geralt of Rivia and Mr. Vernon Roche, two of my noblest and fiercest guests.”

“I can see,” she said, with a court-worthy curtsey. “Pleasure to meet you both.”

Geralt and Vernon both stood to make the formal introduction. “It’s an honour,” said Roche.

Essi smiled and sat. “Mr. Roche, Jaskier tells me you’ve travelled to the West Indies. Is it true?”

“I have, yes. And Rivia here has as well.”

“You must tell me all about it,” she commanded, with bright, wide eyes.

“It’s beautiful there, but the mistreatment of people casts even our foulest deeds in fairer light,” Roche replied.

Geralt snorted. “Our foulest of deeds are pretty foul. I’m not sure that’s a safe comparison.”

Jaskier leaned forward. “You don’t think they mistreat people?”

“No, they do. I just don’t think we get off so easily. It’s impossible to compare.”

Geralt watched Jaskier sit back. He nodded. “Interesting.”

“Interesting? What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” said Jaskier. He looked away.

Geralt hummed and ate a handful of grapes. Roche cleared his throat and continued. “The seas are clear as crystal, and the beaches are white with sun-bleached sand.” Geralt lifted an eyebrow and sat back. He could ignore Jaskier’s strange interjections for now. There were a lot of guests, and it was reasonable to expect he’d spend the next few days with others.

It was reasonable. But, of course, reason had little to do with house parties, and even less to do with the ton's behaviour in general. Lunch soon became brandy and cards and dinner. His seat, he found, was far closer to the table head than necessary. It put him on display. He tried to avoid as many questions as possible without being rude. He tried to ignore the evaluating stares.  


Geralt could still feel eyes on his back, even as he climbed into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope we aren't moving too slow! Then again, I'm posting this chapter knowing full well it could use some trimming. I'm too self-indulgent.   
> I'd love to know your thoughts!! Favorite Regency tropes? I've been rereading the Bridgerton books, so I've got allll the tropes on my mind.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> A few notes:  
> 1\. Credit to Marlowe for the poem (and Aphra Behn in the previous chapter).  
> 2\. Jaskier hiding the knee injury vs. hamming it up for sympathy was an intense debate in my head, and one reason I'm still doubting this chapter. I wanted to show that he is both eminently aware of people's perceptions of him and determined to keep at least a part of himself private. Geralt's discovery of this privacy, and that Jaskier is hiding things, is central to him figuring out Jaskier isn't just the rake he initially thought. I feel like my urge to explain this probably means it isn't well executed.  
> 3\. Geralt's suaveness totally based on the *good* dialogue options in TW3.


End file.
